


All In Good Time

by TravelingSong



Category: The Blacklist (TV)
Genre: F/M, an addition to 4x13
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-12
Updated: 2017-02-12
Packaged: 2018-09-23 20:15:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9674348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TravelingSong/pseuds/TravelingSong
Summary: "They're positively staring at each other now and she can't help but notice how much she's missed this particular look of his, the warmth that he reserves only for her, the raw vulnerability she so rarely gets a glimpse of, and she doesn't want it to end, wants to absorb it, all of it. Wants another chance."





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is a little addition to 4x13. A continuation of sorts.
> 
> Enjoy and please leave a comment if you get the chance!
> 
> (Thanks to imyourplusone for convincing me to write this)

She calls him in the middle of the day.

It's not unusual but unexpected, given the current absence of a case, given the fact that he can't really think of a reason why she would want to talk to him. Casual conversations don't seem to be their strong suit these days, haven't been for a while. Things have been complicated.

But the name on the screen is unmistakable and he tries to ignore the shimmer of hope as he presses the green button.

"Lizzie?"

"Red, hi."

He thinks it feels good to hear her voice, finds himself closing his eyes so he can really focus on it.

"Is there something wrong?"

"No, not really. I just…Well, it's about your clock, actually."

"My clock?"

"Yes, the clock you made for Agnes. I think it might be broken."

"I could have a look at it." It's quick, his response, a bit impulsive, and he doesn't quite know if that's why she's calling, if that's what she is about to ask him, but the words hang between them now and he can't take back the offer. He wouldn't want to.

"That would be great, Red. Thank you." She briefly pauses, seems just as unsure as he. "Agnes and I will be home all day so if you would like to come over—"

He can't believe his luck.

"I'm on my way."

* * *

She is pacing.

She hadn't expected to see him this soon, that he would even find the time in his busy schedule, but she knows she shouldn't be surprised. He would always be there when she needed him.

Their relationship had been strained these past months, and she knows she is largely to blame, had rarely found the right way to approach him, her words often more hurtful than intended, acrimonious even on her worst days when he had given her no reason to be angry, to treat him like she had.

The truth is she's scared. That it's too late for her to make amends, to make things right, to try to explain to him why she had acted the way she did. That she had been deeply unhappy because things hadn't turned out the way she had hoped. That she had believed for so long that a _normal_ life was what she wanted, what she needed, that once she held it in her hands everything would be fine and that her problems, her past, would vanish into thin air. But the reality of it, the disappointment and the anger and the shame, had been painful. And he had been such an easy target. He barely even flinched. And she's so sorry.

Maybe they just needed a little help. Maybe they just needed a broken clock to fix the bond between them.

* * *

He's nervous when he arrives at her doorstep, adjusts his tie three times, straightens his coat over and over before he finally knocks. He can hear footsteps approaching, can hear someone unlocking the door and open it.

She greets him with a smile. Radiant and genuine.

"Come in."

It's the first time he has been in her new apartment with her present, and she seems to have the same thought, takes his coat and leads him into the living room.

"Would you like a tour?" she offers, wants to make him feel welcome, and he nods, is still a bit in awe of the sudden turn his day has taken.

It's a small apartment, there's really not much to show, but he enjoys every second of it, loves how she points out specific things to him, books that have earned a special spot on the shelf, framed art pieces she had found at a flea market in the city.

She makes the nursery her final stop, tells him that Agnes is enjoying her afternoon nap, and they both look down on the sleeping child as they've done before, but this is different, this is peaceful. This is just the three of them.

"She's growing so fast," he notes as they step away to let her rest, and she doesn't fail to catch the melancholy in his voice. She knows he misses her, doesn't get to see her often enough. She knows she'll have to fix that, too.

"Would you like something to drink? Coffee, maybe?"

"Coffee would be wonderful, thank you."

He sits down at the kitchen table, notices the clock resting on the chair next to him. He had spent days tinkering, had meticulously restored its mechanics and polished its wooden exterior. A project dear to his heart. A labor of love.

"What seems to be the problem?" he asks, picks it up and runs his fingers over the elaborate carvings.

She places a mug in front of him and chooses the seat by his side, explains how the small door doesn't open once the full hour strikes.

"I think the bird might be stuck."

"What an unfortunate condition for a cuckoo clock," he remarks with a hint of humor. "But I'm sure we can figure this out."

* * *

It's nothing too intricate, he tells her, just a minor adjustment with the right tools and she seems to own just the ones he needs. It's fascinating to watch him work, the precision of it, his attention to detail, the skill of every movement. She could observe him for hours.

"Agnes loves the clock," she says to interrupt the lingering silence. "She's fascinated by it."

"I'm glad to hear it."

It's still a bit too formal, a bit too cautious, the way he talks to her. His defenses up.

She understands, of course. He's been keeping his distance, a logical reaction to her behavior towards him. But he is here, still, repairing damages he isn't responsible for, the caring man he's always been, and she has to believe things will work out, that maybe they could start with an honest conversation and that the rest would come, all in good time, if she could just take that first step, the words finally leaving her lips.

"I'm sorry, Red."

He looks up then, finds her eyes searching his.

"For what?"

Finds her hand reaching out across the table.

"Everything."

Finds himself intertwining his fingers with hers.

A beginning.

"Me too."

* * *

He decides to stay. Because she offers him another cup of coffee. Because he wants to.

Agnes awakes moments after he has reassembled the clock, the mechanics running smoothly, the hinges tightly in place, and the little girl is seated safely in his lap now, attentively listens to him pointing out the different components.

"She'll grow up to be an engineering genius," Liz comments as she watches the two of them in their domestic bliss, wonders why she has waited this long to invite him into her home. She thinks she hasn't seen him this happy and at ease in quite some time.

"She'll be building clocks before you know it, Lizzie." He smiles and tickles the little girl's cheek. "Now watch closely, Agnes."

It's mere seconds until another hour is complete and he counts them down for her, _five_ , _four_ , lifts her up a bit so she can get a better view, _three_ , _two_ , her eyes wide open in candid wonder.

It works without flaw this time. The opening of the door, the small wooden bird greeting them with a song, the quick movement of its wings and its retreat when the music comes to a stop. A carefully crafted spectacle. A joyous giggle in response.

"I think you just became her hero, Red. Thank you for fixing it."

He would do anything for them.

"You're welcome."

* * *

It's early evening when she hands him his coat and follows him to the door.

"I'm sorry I made you come all the way over here for such a minor problem," she tells him.

"It was my pleasure."

"And I hope I didn't interfere with any of your business ventures."

"Nothing that can't wait until tomorrow."

"I probably could have fixed it myself—"

"Lizzie." He stops her, steps closer to get her attention. His voice is calm and sincere. "I'm glad you called."

"Yeah?"

"Very glad."

They're positively staring at each other now and she can't help but notice how much she's missed this particular look of his, the warmth that he reserves only for her, the raw vulnerability she so rarely gets a glimpse of, and she doesn't want it to end, wants to absorb it, all of it. Wants another chance.

"I know you're very busy but I was wondering if you would like to join Agnes and me for lunch this weekend? We usually stop by this small café right down the street and—"

"I'd love to."

It's so simple suddenly.

"Okay, great. We could meet there around 12 maybe?"

"Or I could come by and pick you up."

So very simple.

"That works, too."

He finishes buttoning his jacket and grabs his hat off the shelf by the door before turning back towards her.

He does it because she still looks uncertain, because he wants to reassure her that this means as much to him as it does to her. He hugs her because she lets him, because her arms encircle him almost immediately, an impulse, much like his response during her call. The need for reconciliation. The need to feel something else than anger.

His lips briefly brush her hair as he withdraws and she's smiling now, her expression so very different, the relief evident.

"I will see you this weekend. Goodnight, Lizzie," he tells her.

Then he's gone.

And she takes a deep breath.

Maybe reality would turn out just fine after all.


End file.
